Vol. 3 Chap. 53 Considering Old Employers and Co-Workers

Vol. 3 Chap. 53 Considering Old Employers and Co-Workers

Truth awoke in a minor panic, feeling smothered by the plastic and the gravel. For a horrible second, he thought he had died in his sleep. For a horrible second, he thought he was back in that well of nothing, feeling the pressure growing. He kicked his way up and out in a hurry.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Five hours, Great One. This stupid worm is quite slow, and we passed nothing and no one of any note.” Truth looked around at the crummy one-lane road jammed between the railroad track and the looming mountains. It was empty. Looking the other way, there were more mountains with a few patches of trees on them. Presumably, some manner of animals, insects, and demons lived in those woods, but he had a hard time believing it. He believed the demon instead- this part of the country was empty because it sucked.

Truth kicked the pea gravel into the rough shape of a seat and sat in it, watching the nothing go past as he got to work on his assassination plot. The information crystal provided by Siphios had been destroyed as a security precaution, but he remembered it well enough. Merkovah knew his man- no plan had been provided, just a target.

The researcher was Constan Borges, M.Thaum, Ph.D., D.Thaum, D.Theo, and with a string of honorary degrees so long that they must be quite tiring to write out in one sitting. Truth was a little vague on what he had actually done that made him so blasted important to Starbrite and, apparently, the world. The dossier used words like “revolutionized” and “pioneered” but connected them to terms of art he had never come across before. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was his terrible education coming back to bite him in the ass again, but it could be that the researcher’s work was just that advanced.

The dossier was blessedly specific on where the good doctor lived and worked. He lived in a surprisingly reasonable home in the tiny flyspeck village of Happori, way the hell up in the mountains. He also worked in the tiny flyspeck village of Happori because Starbrite built him his own research base there. A three-hundred-meter tall twisting vine, holding up a flower a kilometer in diameter. The research station was built on top of it.

Access was strictly controlled. One had to be vetted at a base station and then ride up on the butterflies that fed upon the flower. Thousands upon thousands of butterflies, whose combined bodies and wings formed a platform strong enough to lift both researchers and equipment. Apparently, it all worked thanks to some of the discoveries made by Dr. Borges.

Why build the research station that way? Because when one of the greatest minds of his generation, and one of your most successful drones, wants a fancy toy, you give it to him. Especially if the toy is intended for your benefit. It will inspire others to work harder. And it was quite pretty. Most of the staff lived up there, and Dr. Borges seemed to spend virtually all his time there as well.

Reading between the lines, the home in the village was more a place to keep his wife, his dogs, and, should he ever decide he wanted them, his children. The dossier had specifically instructed to avoid attempts to use the wife, as she was a product of the Lovers tab in the System Store. She could no more harm Borges than she could fail to laugh at his jokes. She was a modified human, though just how much she was modified beyond the merely cosmetic was uncertain.

Considerably more concerning was the security. There was an awful, awful lot of security. Those observer-creatures were there in bulk, naturally. The PMC kept a full platoon of Level Three veterans on site 24/7, with rotating squads of Level Twos to man the base station. The list of surveillance golems, security golems, trap demons, and floating curses ran onto a second page, and it was repeatedly emphasized that this was only what could be observed. There were unquestionably hidden experts on site, too. Level five, at a bare minimum, Level Six or Seven would be more likely, given their protectee was Level Six. This chapter's initial release occurred on the n0vell--Bjjn site.

So. A frontal assault was probably out, and infiltration would be a... real challenge. Supplies came in and out via the base station, brought in by spell birds or extraordinary spirit beasts. There was a regular supply shipment, but if Truth were in charge of the base station, the guards there would know that “delivery day” was also “Surprise Inspection Day” by the senior officers, making sure that nobody got bored with the routine work. An idea he got directly from Sergeant Murthey, now that he thought about it.

Truth lay back on the gravel and lightly closed his eyes. He was stronger now than he was when he went into the well. But was he more dangerous? He played out the fights in his mind. As a Level Four, with intensive body cultivation, he was far faster, more durable, and almost immune to low-level spells. He had extraordinary blessings, a holy sword, and his spells synergized fairly well together. He was still trying to figure out how Knife and Cup worked, but the System gave him at least a bit of flexibility in how he approached problems. Mobility, range, stopping power, healing, he was incredibly capable by any standards... except those of the Starbrite Private Military Company.

He ran the fight in his mind- Level Four PMC officer versus him. Assume they had armor, defensive charms, and the standard issue needler.

Thrush ducked its head briefly but hesitated before flying off. “What about other animals? There is a carriage with a foxes’ den dug into the back seat that otherwise meets your needs.”

“No.”

“As you command.” Thrush managed to sound like a vizier indulging a particularly cruel young prince. A few minutes later, he came back.

“I found a vehicle that I believe meets all your requirements.”

“Lead on.”

“I caution you that it is... unconventional.”

“Sounds like my life. Let’s do it.”

“Very unconventional.”

“Just show me already.”

“Here, behind the hovel.”

“Hovel” was a fair description of the house, as it was for all the houses in Rhemv. The backyard was a heap of scrap, hauled over and dumped for reasons known only to the dumper. Buried under bits of houses, boats, and household trash was... something.

“Thrush, what am I looking at?”

“I believe, Dread Master, that it is a moderately broken, single-person, demon-assist spellbird. With some effort, you may yet rise above this rabble.”